


Like Clockwork

by MrMysterious2



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Nymphomania, bisexual Dean what up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-14
Updated: 2015-11-18
Packaged: 2018-02-25 08:41:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2615450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrMysterious2/pseuds/MrMysterious2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester has a problem. He just doesn't know it yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

His heart pounds in his ears, resonating with her muffled gasps. He is on top of her and on top of the world, grinning into the nape of her neck. Her breast is small and soft in his hand. He can feel her spine against his chest.  
He senses the end and pulls out, turns her onto her back – he never finishes from behind. They moan in mutual ecstasy, clawing and writhing and gasping.  
When she leaves he kisses her and then contemplates keeping her over coffee. There comes a knock at his door and he answers, nude. It is his other lover – one of the many – with a bottle of champagne.

“I got a promotion.” He says as an explanation of the beverage.

“I've never fucked a CEO.” They smile.

Such is the life of Dean Winchester: work, fuck, sleep, repeat. His nymphomania is his best-kept secret from all but the people he screws. From the very beginning he decided never to lie to them. He is not seeking the illusion of love, nor does he desire comfort. Sex is what he wants, and sex is what he gets.

As a man of order Dean completes his daily tasks like clockwork; never skipping a beat, never looking back. He wakes up, has a coffee and showers. By 8.30 AM he leaves for work and by 8.50 AM he arrives. He spends his weekdays fixing cars and at 5.30 PM he heads for home, always staying the extra half hour to chat with his old friend Bobby Singer over a beer or two.

When he is home he showers again, eats dinner and waits. At 6.20 PM exactly there comes a knock at his door: the first of the evening. From then until midnight he entertains a procession of characters. Young, old, fat, thin, male, female; his night-time visitors all adore him, all want him more than he wants them; he knows, and he does not care.

Weekends are for him, like most, a time of leisure. There are no scheduled meetings, no cars to fix. He sleeps in til 10 AM and showers at noon. If he wants a fuck – which he always does – he goes to a bar and he finds one. Weekends are his hunting season; he prowls, singling out the perfect prey to take home and devour.

It is 9.16 PM and Dean is in a new bar, sipping a new beer and surveying a new crowd. He has narrowed his choices down to three – the buxom blonde in the corner, the dimpled beauty with the tight ass to his right and the silver-haired, green-eyed monster sipping martinis by the window – when someone raps their knuckles against the bar beside his elbow.

“Two pints, please!” The gravel in his voice grates on Dean’s senses, rubs him just the right way. He prays silently that the voice is connected with a good looking body.

The first thing he sees is a light smattering of stubble across a strong jaw. He lets his eyes trail down from there, closely observing the exposed neck and the open shirt. With the sleeves rolled up he can see the sinews moving under the skin of his forearms and he is hooked.

“Excuse me.” Leaning in he places his hand over one delicious forearm, capturing his target’s attention successfully and without shouting, a trait he finds unattractive when picking up.  
“Would you like to come back to my place and fuck?” He smiles toothily at the drop-jaw reaction his question evokes. “I would have said that I don't mean to be forward, but that would have been a lie.”

“Being coy is not your thing, huh?” Although it is not an answer to Dean’s question, the man has made no attempt to move away – an encouraging sign.

“Life’s short – why waste it pretending that you don’t want something that you really do?”

“Ah, a philosopher.” At that moment the two pints he had ordered are placed in front of him. Dean watches him pay, patient. “Tell you what, I’m going to give these to my friend over there and then we can go to your place. Or the park. Or under a streetlight. Reckon I’m just drunk enough and you’re more than good looking enough to make me want to fuck you anywhere.” He turns to leave, drinks in hand, but stops and calls over his shoulder – “I’m Castiel, by the way.”

“Dean.” Says Dean. He watches with mounting appreciation his captured target sauntering away.

By 9.27 PM Dean is leaving the bar. As always, he is not alone.

True to his word Dean wastes no time in going for what he wants the moment his front door swings open. He lunges for Castiel’s throat, nipping and sucking and licking. Castiel works at the buttons on his shirt while Dean works the buttons on his, following the trail of revealed skin as, button-by-button his prey is laid bare before him. He drops to his knees, hands grasp at hips, drives them back-back-back into the wall, holds them there as he leaves trails of saliva roaming across a flat expanse of stomach. He draws the tip of his tongue along the skin just above the belt. He feels a hard cock caress his Adam’s apple and draws back. Dean does not undress his lovers – does not believe in it. Never has he helped them back into their clothes, so why do the opposite? He waits, watches hungrily as belt and jeans go sliding down around milky thighs, followed by black boxers. He stands again, breathes into Castiel’s open mouth and admires his closed eyes and reaches down. The hitched breath is without a doubt Dean’s favourite moment in sex. Right at the beginning, just as they start to realise that he is good, very good at this.

He moves with his hand, grinding painfully slow against Castiel as he stands paralysed with desire. He dips in to partake in the china-doll collar bones. He regulates his breathing, forces his heartbeat to remain even until he deems it allowable to beat against his ribs like a caged animal. Castiel lifts into his palm; he pushes his hips off the wall in small fluid movements. Dean lets go, takes a step back and waits. He unbuckles his jeans. Castiel opens his eyes in protest and moves his hand toward his cock, not as self-restrained or patient as Dean, who shakes his head and tuts, moving to grasp at Castiel’s wrists.

“Let’s go somewhere more comfortable.”

They fall onto Dean’s bed, Dean straddling Castiel. On the short trip to his bedroom he had shucked his jeans and underwear also, kicking off his shoes at the foot of the bed. He had almost laughed out loud at the sight of them both wearing nothing but their socks.

As he delves in to claim Castiel’s mouth he reaches blindly for his bedside table. His fingers touch on a conveniently placed condom and he rolls it on with ease. He stands, pulls Castiel up by the hair; he obligingly sucks and spits until Dean is satisfied and falls back onto the pillows, turning himself around. It is now that Dean allows his heart to race. As he lays himself flush against Castiel, feeling his spine against his chest, he bites down on the back of his neck: animalistic and possessive in these few moments only. They breathe in unison – a chorus of sharp inhales and shaking exhales, interjected by moans and the slipping of skin against skin.  
As always, Dean pulls out and turns his lover onto his back as he nears the end. They hover together – lips almost touching but not quite, bodies almost climaxing but not yet.

At the end Dean is confronted with a familiar feeling of satisfaction not quite achieved. It hangs tantalisingly close, just out of his reach, never fully attainable. He offers Castiel a shower and they find themselves tangled together once more beneath the steaming stream. He makes them both a coffee after that, and with the kettle as their only witness they are joined once more beneath the glaring fluorescent kitchen light.

It is almost midnight when Castiel leaves. Dean kisses him as he walks out the door and they almost fall against the wall for a second time that evening but the beeping of a taxi horn pulls them back to sobriety. Instead Castiel presses a card into Dean’s hand and staggers away. He does not look back. The card in Dean’s hand is one for a business – Castiel’s business. He smiles at the roof. He will be calling that one back for sure.

The next day is Sunday. Dean rises with the call of the birds and enjoys his ritual coffee on the balcony amidst the birdsong. He showers and remembers fondly the events of last night. He pulls on a clean shirt but leaves his jeans on the chair while he picks up the phone. In his hand he holds the card with Castiel’s number.

On the fifth ring the phone is picked up and there is a moment where only tired breathing is heard down the line.

“Hello?”

“Hey, it’s Dean;” pause “from last night.” Suddenly the line is filled with the sounds of scrambling and grunting. Dean guesses it to be a rush to sit up in bed.

“Hey Dean, hey; you certainly don’t waste any time, do you? It’s what, 8 AM on a Sunday?”

“It’s 10.14 AM, actually.”

“Holy shit.”

“Yeah.”

“Good thing you called then, I would have been dead to the world til Lord knows what time.” Dean grins down the line.

“You want to get a cup of coffee and catch a movie?”

“I would kill for a coffee right now; sure thing.”

“Meet me at Wired at 11 AM. You know the place?”

“Yeah, yeah I know the place.”

“See you then.”

“’Bye Dean.” The line goes dead. Dean listens to the drone of the dial tone for a moment before hanging up. He pulls on his jeans and settles in front of the television to wait.

At 10.45 AM Dean leaves his apartment. He decides to walk, wrapping his coat around him as protection from the invading cold. It creeps its fingers under the neck of his shirt as he walks, escapes his nose in a fog. He walks out of the chill and into the welcoming warmth of the Wired café. It is 10.58 AM. He finds a seat and peruses the menu as a means to pass the time while he waits the three and a half minutes for Castiel to show up. The bell above the door jingles, announcing the arrival of his most recent lover. He stands, polite and poised, until Castiel takes a seat opposite him. They look each other up and down, remembering what they had forgotten in slumber and seeing for the first time what they had overlooked in lust. Dean breaks contact first.

“What’ll it be? My treat.” Castiel scans the menu briefly.

“I’ll have a long black, I think.” Dean nods, commits the order to memory. He stands, strides over to the counter and places an order for them both. When he returns to the table Castiel is gazing out the window. A light rain spatters against the glass, drips down to pool on the concrete below.

“They’ll be here in a sec.” Dean lowers himself into his chair. Castiel drags his eyes away from the weather. They smile – Castiel tired and tentative, Dean confident and reassuring.

“Did you find your way home alright?” Castiel nods.

“I almost fell asleep on the way there though; poor driver had to keep shaking me like a sack of potatoes.” He laughs. His eyes crinkle. “And then it turned out that I didn't have enough on me to pay the full fare.” Dean chuckles.

“I’ll bet he didn’t like that.”

“Actually, he was a surprisingly good sport about it. Just took what I had and told me he’d cover the rest. I think he just wanted his shift to be over so he could go home, if I’m honest.”

Their coffees arrive, carried by the soft young waitress that Dean had fucked a month ago in the alley by the dumpsters. They share a fleeting look, the waitress tucks a stray hair behind her ear and leans further than necessary over the table to give Dean his mocha. After she leaves they sip in silence, appreciating the comfort of the coffee as it warms their veins. Outside the rain grows steadily more abrasive.

“So last night was fun.” That is Castiel, dragging his fingertip absently around the rim of his mug.

“Mmm.” Dean hums his agreement.

“Do you do that a lot? Fuck total strangers, I mean.”

“I do; I suppose you could call it a hobby of mine.” This earns a huff of laughter.

“Some people knit, others scrapbook – you fuck strangers.”

“That about sums it up.” Silence settles once more like a mist. The click and chatter around them provides a background to their thoughts.

“Do you often invite people out for coffee the next day?” There is a pause as Dean lowers his mug, straightens his teaspoon.

“No.”

“No?”

“No.” Dean closes his eyes at the realisation. “Not for years.” Why had he called Castiel? His game plan is always to wait a day and then lay the situation on the table, set up a time slot or bid them a fond farewell.

“Well gee mister, if that doesn't just tickle me pink.” Castiel adopts a Southern drawl in jest. His mockery does not disguise the legitimate joy that he feels in hearing what Dean just revealed. Dean peers into his empty mug, looks up and smiles across the table at his company.

“You finished?” Castiel tips the rest of his beverage back.

“I am now.”

“Still keen for a movie?”

“Lead the way.”

They get as far as the door when Dean turns to Castiel. The doorbell hangs above them like mistletoe. Rain wets their shoes.

“Did you bring a car?” Castiel laughs at the question.

“Did you not?”

“No.” Castiel shakes his head, extracts a set of keys from the pocket of his trench coat.

“It’s your lucky day.” Together they step out into the rain. Castiel leads the way to his car. The heater comes on as the car kicks into life; it blasts against Dean’s face and neck, blows loose a few precariously perched raindrops from the tips of his hair.

“Where to?” Dean gestures carelessly.

“Go straight; I’ll tell you when to turn.”

They arrive at the cinema by 11.33 AM. Their timing leaves them with ten minutes to purchase tickets and popcorn before the next showing of Young Guns.

“That movie hasn’t been out for years.” Castiel comments, reading the schedule over Dean’s shoulder.

“Yeah, but it’s a classic – this place does special screenings every Sunday.” Dean smiles at the man behind the counter – remembers him half-naked and high in the projection room. “This is generally where you’ll find me on a Sunday afternoon.” He gets his ticket and popcorn at half the usual price. Castiel notices.

“Do you get a regulars discount or something?” Dean smirks. Behind him the cinema worker smothers a grin.

“Yeah, something like that.”

They take a seat at the back of the cinema. As the advertisements come on they are completely alone. Dean notes this with satisfaction. By the time the movie begins they are joined by one other couple, who sit towards the front. Dean’s contentment remains – he has worked with far more cramped conditions.

Emilio Estevez is putting a bullet in a bounty hunters’ head when Dean slides his hand over Castiel’s thigh. He moves no further, in no rush to reach the end. Castiel’s fingers creep towards Dean’s belt, deftly loosening the buckle. Dean raises an eyebrow, impressed.  
The sounds of gunfights and Emilio laughing his strange laugh fill Dean’s ears; Castiel commands control of his other senses. Fingers are replaced by teeth and tongue, circling and stroking and teasing. Dean claims a fist-full of dark hair, massaging the scalp it clings to and gently – ever-so-gently – guiding down, down, down.

A gunshot coincides with Dean’s release. He breathes through his nose, deep and hard, as Castiel licks him dry. Once his cock is clean and his jeans buckled he bends, not one to leave a favour unreturned. Castiel cups the back of his neck, nails digging into the sensitive flesh. He lifts once, twice, three times into Dean’s throat, unconcerned with tenderness. Dean does not gag, has learned to handle – even enjoy – the inconsiderate nature of others when mid-coitus. The reckless abandon is something he cannot allow himself. He has fucked so many and so often since his 16th birthday that he has forgotten how to lose control. Sex is clockwork to him, a daily ritual as necessary as his coffee.

Castiel moans, muffles the sound with his knuckles. His ecstasy brings Dean’s mind back to the task at hand, reminds him of the cock between his teeth. He twists, captures it at a new angle, resumes his play. When Castiel becomes jerky and breathless he slides away, draws his tongue up from base to tip one last time as he shudders through his orgasm. Dean produces a handkerchief, mops up the excess, deposits it in his empty popcorn box. Castiel snorts, a breathy unattractive sound.

“Who brings a handkerchief to a cinema?”

“Someone who expects a blowjob.”

“I’ve given my fair share of blowjobs, and let me tell you: no one else brings a handkerchief.”

“Sounds like I’m the only one with any sense and courtesy around here.” Castiel snorts again.

“Sounds like it.”

They finish the movie in companionable silence, knees resting together. Dean wonders at his decision to call Castiel. He was not a prodigiously fantastic fuck, they had exchanged barely enough words to feel any profound bond – he does not even know his age. He knows his last name – Novak – thanks only to the business card sitting by his phone at home. The notion of a subconscious desire for affection beyond the physical scurries before his eyes. He bats it away. The credits roll, the lights come on – Castiel stands and waits for him to do the same.

When they are once again in the light of day Dean brushes his fingers against Castiel’s to hold his attention.

“Drive me home?”

It is 1.48 PM and Dean and Castiel are seated in the latter’s car outside the former’s apartment building. The engine is running. So are Dean’s thoughts. When the quiet is pressing down so hard his ears are ringing he speaks, second-guessing his every syllable.

“Would you like to come up for a coffee?”

“Just a coffee?” Castiel is mirthful and mischievous in his questioning. Dean grins toothily.

“The intention is just a coffee and a chat like civilised people do. But I’m making no promises.”

“I certainly hope not.”

Dean makes them both a coffee while Castiel wanders around his apartment, investigating. He holds up a photograph.

“I didn’t know you had a brother.” Dean smiles fondly at the prompt, pride radiating from his every pore.

“That’s Sammy, he’s a big-shot lawyer. Got himself a lovely wife and a monster of a home, way too big for just the two of them.”

“Older or younger?”

“Younger – he’s the high-flier of the family. First Winchester to go to college in generations.” He sets two steaming mugs down on the table and pulls up a chair. Castiel crosses the room to join him.

“Do you see him often?” Dean’s smile falters minutely.

“Nah, he lives all the way on the other side of town. We call each other every week, but he’s real busy; I don’t like to disturb him much if I can help it.” Castiel says nothing, does not want to risk saying something overly sympathising or foolish. For the second time that day they sip at their coffees in silence, watching each other.

“So what is it that you do? For a living, that is.” Dean shrugs, swallows and sets down his mug.

“I’m just a mechanic. A fucking good one, mind you, but just a mechanic nonetheless. Nothing like a big fancy lawyer in the city.” Castiel goes to say something mildly reassuring but finds his own question turned on him.

“Me? I’m a primary school teacher – English.”

“Never was good at English; never was good at anything much besides fixing cars, really. Bobby likes to say that instead of a silver spoon I was born with a wrench in my mouth.” They share a laugh. The sound of their joy drifts above their heads and tangles together.

“Who’s Bobby then?”

“The grumpiest old fuckhead you will ever meet. But a great mechanic and an even better man. He was more like a father to me and Sammy than our real old man.”

Dean is still unsure about the event taking place at his table, is still wondering why he is talking to an almost complete stranger about things he has not brought up outside of his closest family and friends for years. All he knows for certain is that it feels good. It feels good to talk to someone for no other reason than to talk. It feels good to not hide – not that he has ever had to before – but there has always been a carefully constructed wall between him and his lovers. They are there to fuck, not talk. But now, as he sits in his kitchen table across from the man with the arms like sex and the probing eyes, as the steam from their mugs curls up and infuses with their breath, he lets the words flow off his tongue like liquid, and Castiel drinks. He drinks and drinks and when Dean finally dams his throat he gives all that he got; spills his stories into the basin of Dean’s ears. And there they sit, creating waves in the ocean between them.

They fuck on the table at 7.14 PM. The ocean they created ebbs and flows within them as they rock with it: tender and slow and fragile under the harsh kitchen light.

“Where is this going?” Castiel is lethargic in his movements, cracking open his eyes slowly to peer up at Dean. The table is cold beneath him and Dean’s weight is warm, so warm and alive and wondering. They are mid-fuck, Dean still pressing into him, his rocking and grinding slowed to an impossible speed. His arms strain either side of Castiel’s head. He is frowning.

“I honestly don't know. Where do you want it to go?”

“Would it be an issue if I said I would like it to go in the direction of a relationship?”

“No.” Pause. “I don’t think so. I haven't been in a relationship so long it’s hard to remember what it’s like.” There is silence as Castiel manoeuvres himself into sitting precariously on the edge. He brings his lips to Dean’s throat, his jaw, his cheek, his tongue. They slide into a steady rhythm of breathe and thrust, breathe and thrust, breathe and thrust. They do not speak again.

He leaves Dean’s apartment at 8.26 PM. They do not kiss. Instead, Castiel lays a hand on Dean’s cheek. He caresses the strong sharp jaw line, smiles and turns away; he closes the door behind himself. Dean is halfway to his bedroom when he hears a knock at his door. He opens it to reveal the grinning Castiel, shoulders shaking slightly with laughter.

“I forgot my keys.”

Dean pulls him in by the neck, crushes their lips together. This passion is a new one, one he wants to scratch away at, leave raw and burning and bright bright red.

Castiel does not go home that night.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean wakes to birdsong and breathing; a hot breath on his chest. There is the tiniest hint of saliva on his nipple – Castiel’s drool. Castiel: the first person to stay at his house all night in nigh on a decade. He stirs when Dean moves to get up, mumbles incoherent sleep-thoughts and curls into himself, preserving what he can of Dean’s absent heat. It is 6.50 AM on a Monday. 

Dean showers briefly as his coffee machine heats up. He returns to his bedroom and the still sleeping Castiel. He places the two mugs on the bedside table and pulls on a fresh outfit while he waits for Castiel to awaken. Finally the smell of the coffee wafts into his nose. He sits up, groggy and gorgeous: his eyes are glued half-shut, his hair a day-old bonfire. Dean holds out his coffee. 

“Wha’ time is it?”

“7.03 AM on a Monday.”

“Shit. I’ve gotta get home and get ready for work.” He tips his head back and gulps down his coffee, resurfaces gagging and gasping. He sticks his tongue out and pants, like a dog.

“Fuck! Oh fuck that is hot, goddamn.” Dean laughs.

“Didn’t think I’d have to warn you, dumbass.” He ducks to avoid the pillow aimed in his direction. 

“Asshole.” 

Castiel stands, still clutching the offending cup of coffee. He is naked. Dean considers fucking him. 

“You can have a shower here before you leave if you like, wake yourself up some before hitting the road.” 

“Mmm, that sounds like a fantastic idea.” He pads towards the bathroom, remembering its location from Saturday night. Dean leaves him be, instead finishes his coffee on the balcony, breathing in the early-morning scents that have not yet been washed away by the bustle of humanity. 

Castiel comes out to join him after his shower. He is in day-old clothes and there is toothpaste on the side of his mouth, but Dean kisses him, wants to keep kissing him. Castiel laughs, pulls away. 

“I better get going.”

“There’s toothpaste on the side of your mouth.” Castiel’s tongue darts out to seize the offending dental hygiene paste. 

“I was saving that for later.” He proclaims. Dean stands; his mug is empty. 

“Smartass. I’ll walk you to the door. Don’t forget your keys this time.”

“Oh, what a tragedy that would be.” 

This time when Castiel leaves he does kiss Dean – a lingering, close-lipped kiss. 

“Want to hear a secret?” He mutters. His breath smells of stale sleep and toothpaste – he used his finger as a toothbrush, a poor substitute for the bristles. Dean hums his response. 

“I left my keys here on purpose last night.” Dean smiles.

“Want to hear a secret?” He mimics.

“Sure.”

“I know you did.” Castiel was not the first to have done such a thing; he was, however, the first that Dean had allowed back in. This information he kept to himself, considering it too much of a secret to share. Castiel laughs, pecks his lips once more and backs away, out into the hallway. 

“I’ll see you around.” 

“Yes, you will.” He leaves, yawning and grinning. His keys jingle in his pocket as he walks. 

 

At work Dean finds himself being watched by Bobby with a suspicious eye. 

“What’s gotten into you, sunshine?” He asks at lunch. Dean shrugs, swallows his mouthful of burger.

“Dunno what you’re talking about, old man.” 

“Don’t you ‘old man’ me boy, I know when something’s gotten into one of my boys and something’s gotten into you real good today. So spill.”

“Really Bobby it’s nothing; you’re imagining shit. I’m just in a good mood is all. Can’t a fella be in a good mood?”

“Fuck no.” Bobby scoffs. “Least of all you. You’re the mopiest son of a bitch I’ve ever met.” Dean laughs.

“Spill, boy, we ain’t got all day.”

“Alright, alright, shit. I might have met someone. Might have, mind you, it’s only been two days.” As expected Bobby just scoffs again and takes a bite of his sandwich, shakes his head. 

“I wish you luck with that.”

“Thanks Bobby.” 

“You spoken to your brother recently?” 

And that is the end of that; if there is one thing Bobby is good at it is not asking too many questions. He knows Dean well enough to know that if he wants to talk he will talk when he is good and ready. They eat, exchange their regular take-the-piss banter and go back to work. At 5.00 PM they finish up for the day. As always Dean stays behind a half hour to share a beer with Bobby on his back porch, overlooking their day’s labours. At 5.32 PM Dean bids Bobby farewell. He drives home, picking up a burger and fries on his way. He cleans himself up and by 6.20 PM he is ready and waiting. 

He opens the door. Standing in the hallway is a small lithe woman with dark skin and fantasies to match. She steps past him without a word. She is poised, business-like: she has never made the effort of small talk. She walks into the bedroom, unbuttoning her shirt. Dean follows suit. He enters to see her already naked, placing her folded clothes onto the bureau, like always. He is less ceremonious, leaving his jeans on the floor where he steps out of them. 

“Keep the belt.” She commands. He obliges. She crawls onto the bed, positions herself on her hands and knees, legs spread. 

“Hit.” Again, he obliges. The smack of leather against skin reverberates throughout the room, accompanied by her sharp gasps. When she has had enough she sits up straight, connects her wrists behind her back.

“Bind me.” 

They fuck like animals: fast and loud and rough. Dean bites her neck, pulls her hair; flips her on her back with force and plunges again and again and again until they come. There is no collapsing, exhausted, next to each other. He unbinds her and she goes into the bathroom with her clothes. She showers, dresses and leaves with a brisk, but not unfriendly, goodbye. 

After she leaves Dean downs a cup of coffee and waits. He leaves his clothes off. There will be no use for them for the rest of the evening. 

His next visitor does not knock, as always. She saunters in, finds him comfortably seated on his couch watching the clock. It reads 6.55 PM.

“You’re five minutes late. Again.”

“You know it’s worth the wait.”

“I do.” She steps out of her dress, slips off her sandals. “But I have a schedule to keep.” She straddles his waist, pulls his face towards her breasts.

“I know, dear.” He takes her nipple in his mouth, tugs and licks and kisses. “You tell me every Monday.”

She rocks against him, guides his hands to her waist. He holds her as she swings back, reaching for something in the coffee table draw. Her long blonde hair falls to cover her when she sits back up. 

“Safety first.” She smirks, extracting the condom from its packaging. Dean turns his attention to her throat and collarbones as she rolls the plastic onto him and rocks again. She lifts, lets herself down slow and smooth onto his cock. They fuck like the movies; alabaster skin and gentle hands and inaudible gasps, moving at a tantalisingly torpid pace.  
She kisses him when she leaves, getting up on tip-toe to reach his lips. 

“Why do you have to be so damn untouchable?” She asks, only half joking. He smiles.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. You had no problem touching me a moment ago.”

“You know what I mean, smart ass.” She laughs. And he does. He knows that she feels more for him than his other lovers, if only marginally. But she knows there is nothing to be done, and so she satisfies herself with casual sex once a week. She squeezes his hand and turns to leave. He does not watch her go. 

The remainder of the night continues along in the same pattern; a queue of lovers enter and leave his apartment until the last one finally leaves at 12.06 AM. Dean shuts the door for the last time and crawls into bed. He is asleep in minutes. 

 

At 6.30 AM he is up again, showering and drinking coffee and driving to work in his beloved Chevy Impala. Bobby is waiting for him on his front porch as he pulls up. 

“Morning Bobby.”

“Mornin’.” 

They walk to the car yard side by side in silence, small talk not being the forte of either of them. Dean carries an old radio, Bobby an esky brimming with beer. When they arrive Dean places the radio on the esky and turns it on. Hard as a Rock by AC/DC is playing, and he cranks up the volume with a grin. 

The rest of the day goes by fast, with the weather clear for the first time in weeks they are able to wheel the cars out of the garage to work on. When break rolls around they recline against one of the rust buckets strewn around as far as the eye can see, enjoying a few cold ones.

“So Bobby,” Dean starts after his first sip “how’s Ellen?” Bobby shrugs.

“She’s good, I guess. Haven’t seen her since Thursday last week.”

“You asked her out yet?”

“No I have not, boy.” Bobby emphasises every word, takes a deep swig of his beer and scuffs his boots in the dirt.

“Chicken shit.” Dean scoffs. 

“Listen here boy, Ellen Harvelle is one of the finest women you and I are ever gonna meet. She deserves a hell of a lot better than scruffy old me and you know it.”

“That’s bullshit Bobby, and you know it. You’re a grumpy old fuck but you’re about the smartest grumpy old fuck I know, and I know that beneath all that dirt and scowling you’re a good guy, too. You and Ellen would be lucky to have each other. So quit your bitchin’ and ask her out already.”

“Ah, balls.” Bobby finishes his beer in one great gulp and pushes away from the broken down car, ending the conversation. Dean shakes his head at the retreating man. He finishes his beer slowly, enjoying the cold condensation on his blistered palm, before rejoining Bobby at the garage. They do not talk.

At 5.00 PM they clock off. As always Dean stays behind to chat with Bobby. They have both moved past their earlier discussion and sit companionably discussing politics and the economy and Sam.

“I should probably call him;” Dean muses into his drink “haven’t spoken for a while.”

“I spoke to him the other day.” Bobby says, reclining back in his porch swing. “’said he was looking forward to coming down over Christmas, catch up with everyone properly.”

“Really now?”

“Yessir. He was hinting at some sort of big news, too, something he and Jess want to tell us all.”

“Reckon she’s pregnant?”

“I reckon so. They’re already married, what more big news could there possibly be?” Dean looks out over the car yard, smiling faintly. 

“Wouldn’t that be a treat if they made me Godfather.” Bobby snorted.

“You’d already be the uncle, why have twice the responsibility?” 

“I don’t know, Bobby. As long as it ain’t you, then I’m happy.”

“Hey! I’d make a damn good Godfather! I basically was your father and you two turned out alright. Reckon I could do it again, even if I am getting on a bit.”

“Nonsense Bobby, you’re a spring chicken if ever I saw one.” 

“Don’t get smart with me, boy, I may be twice your age but I could still take ya down.” Dean laughs.

“Well you’ve scared me so much I wanna run and hide.” He swallows the last of his beer and stands, claps Bobby on the shoulder.

“See you tomorrow, chicken.” He hears Bobby mutter obscenities under his breath as he makes his way to his car. He slides into the driver’s seat laughing. 

He is halfway home when his phone rings. 

“Yeah?” 

“Hi Dean.” He is slightly taken aback. The gravelly voice filling his mobile’s speakers is the last thing he expected to hear. Despite this, he is not unpleased to hear it.

“Hey, Cas, what’s up?” 

“Nothing much.” There is a sense of deliberation on the other end of the line. “Listen, Dean: I haven’t got work tomorrow and I was just wondering if you wanted to go grab a drink, maybe a bite to eat?” Dean smiles down the line. 

“Sure, I could eat. Anywhere you had in mind?”

“You know Trois Cours?”

“I know of it.”

“Great. Meet there at 7.00 PM?”

“It’s a date.” Dean hangs up and starts texting. A mass text is sent out to all of his scheduled lovers, cancelling the many rendezvous. He drives home in a mist of content and conflict. Should he take tomorrow off as well? He did just cancel his daily dose in favour of a date. He knows for a fact that he will, one way or the other, be getting sex tonight, but if it is to be with one person instead of half a dozen in a steady, organised flow, then he would like to make the most of it. As he pulls into the car park opposite his apartment building he decides that he will make that call tomorrow morning after assessing the circumstances. 

Once inside his apartment he showers and then makes himself a coffee. He figures that clothes are unnecessary for this, and pads to the wardrobe only when his beverage is ready. And there he stands for nigh on ten minutes, sipping at his coffee and staring at the contents of his wardrobe, at a loss for what to wear.  
Trois Cours is a four star restaurant, which means almost-but-not-quite suit and tie get-up is required. He finally opts for his best dark blue jeans and a white button-up. Feeling restricted he rolls up the sleeves and leaves the first two buttons undone. A splash of cologne and a touch of hair gel and he is ready to take on the world, or at the very least a night out with a gorgeous man. 

“Right then,” he states to his reflection “into battle.”

Castiel is waiting outside when Dean pulls up at 6.53 PM, leaning against a pillar. His shirt is salmon pink and his eyes are shut. He seems in no rush to open them, even after Dean taps his forehead with a pert “Wakey wakey sunshine!”

“Tough day?” He asks, grinning. Castiel huffs a breath into existence and propels himself off his leaning post.

“Kids: there’s nothing more fascinating and impossible to deal with on this earth.” They enter the restaurant. It is more plush than Dean expects, all maroon carpeting and art nouveau decor. He is at once impressed and out of his depth. He follows Castiel to where a comely woman stands behind a lectern, a warm smile gracing her lips.

“Castiel.” She tips her head in greeting.

“Anna.” Castiel turns to Dean. “Anna is my sister. So –“

“So family discount for Castiel and his guest.” Anna interrupts, smiling indulgently at the two of them. “Right this way.”

They are led to the back corner by a window. The table is adorned with a single white candle. As they take their seats Anna hands them both a menu, smiles and winks and leaves, returning to her lectern. Dean watches her go. He turns back to see Castiel watching him watch her. His expression is expectant and unsure. 

“Do you always dine this fancy?” Dean inquires.

“No, just here. It seems a bit much, I get that, but Anna gets me a 40% discount on everything.” There is a pause as he peruses the menu in his hands. “Sometimes it’s just nice to indulge a little.” Dean nods, his own eyes scanning the list of foreign and complicated-sounding cuisine. He throws it down in resignation after a minute.

“I can’t fucking read half of this fancy foreign shit.” Castiel smiles at his sulky expression. 

“What do you want?”

“I would kill for a massive steak right now; rare with a side of bloody. And chips.” Castiel signals over a waiter and places their order. In a whirl of cologne and polite smiles the waiter promises the short arrival of their meals and whisks away their menus, leaving red wine in their stead. 

“So,” Dean begins after a hearty sample of his wine “how’re things? You seemed exhausted earlier, do you end every day looking that run-down?” Castiel shrugs, plays with the lip of his glass. 

“It’s certainly starting to feel that way.” He sighs. “Guess I’m just getting too old to be running after young kids all day.” Dean scoffs.

“Bullshit.” Castiel looks up at him, amused. “You’re what? Thirty? There’s no fucking way you’re ‘getting too old’. If you ask me you’re just tired of your job. Happens to the best of us.” Castiel sips at his wine, contemplating.

“I suppose you could be right.”

“I often am.”

“But I can’t just up and leave my job for a new one.”

“Why the fuck not?” Castiel sighs. It is a world-weary sound, the expelling of breath that accompanies a man used to supplying simple answers to simple questions.

“Because teaching kids is all I know. It’s the only thing I studied. I can’t afford to go back to university – not with the salary I earn. Besides, I wouldn’t have the first clue as to what I’d want to pursue.” 

“Well I say figure out what you want and then go from there.” Dean nods firmly, confident in his advice. “One day at a time, man, that’s all it takes.” Castiel huffs a small laugh.

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Do you ever get weary of your job? Wish you could go off and do something else?” Dean shrugs and sips.

“Not really. I mean, sure, it can get a little dull – but what job doesn’t? I like cars, their owners like me, I do what I’m good at all day and get paid for it: I’m comfortable. It’s not much, I know that, but I make a living and that’s enough to keep me happy.” Castiel is nodding slowly, bobbing his head rhythmically to the beat of his heart. 

“Maybe one day I’ll go after what I want in life.” A twist of the lips – not quite happy. “Big maybe.” 

“Well if you ever do, call me. We’ll make it a date.” 

They smile at each other and their eyes shine with the illumination of the candle between them – a fragile hope of good to come and lives to change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for the slow update, it is unfortunately a notorious trait of mine  
> Also the name of the (fake) restaurant roughly translates to Three Course in French (I think, I did use Google [but not Google Translate, so that has to count for something surely])


	3. Chapter 3

The night is spent on long gazes and absorbing conversation. The food makes Dean want to cry tears of incredible joy, and the feel of Castiel’s foot beneath the tablecloth has him battling an erection. He is conflicted: the desire to stay and talk forever with the man with the voice like sex clashes with the want to worship his body against his balcony railing. As always, the latter wins out. At 9.46 PM he leans forward, places his hand on the salmon cloth of Castiel’s arm. His mind is brought back to the first night that they met.

“Would you say you’re ready to ditch this high-class establishment?” 

Castiel peers at his empty plate, swirls his glass contemplatively. He downs the last drops with a dramatic flair.

“I would.”

They stand and leave their table. Anna hands them the cheque and takes their money: they halve the bill. With a conspiratorial wink she sends them off.

He barely makes it through the door to his apartment. The lights are not even on when he drops to his knees before Castiel, hands already working belt buckles and zippers. Castiel is not erect; Dean works to change that. He sucks and licks, pulls and bites until the beautiful man above him pulls him up by his hair. Their teeth crash together in a kiss not quite desperate but searching. Seeking to taste, to touch, to devour. Dean is hungry; Castiel is starved. He pushes Dean back, back, back against the wall, drops him to his knees once more. Dean opens his mouth, a desert drought awaiting the rain. Castiel thrusts - unforgiving and needy - he goes until he can go no further. Dean cannot breathe, cannot care less. His head is beating a rhythm against the wall. Saliva slides down his chin when Castiel finally pulls out. 

“Balcony.” He gasps, staggering to his feet. Without waiting for Castiel to follow he heads for his proclaimed destination. He works his way out of his clothes as he goes, grabs a nearby bottle of lubricant. 

Once there he hears a quiet hiss from behind him. He turns; Castiel stands before him, naked and shivering but still hard and willing. He smirks, beckons minimally for his lover to come closer. He obeys, and is rewarded with rough hands bending him over the railing. A gasp escapes; the people walking below hear nothing. 

Ignoring his need, Dean takes his time inspecting his prey. His hands follow the curve of a spine; cups an ass cheek and squeezes. He reaches around, strokes Castiel once and retreats. He enjoys the sound of protest sent his way by the impatient man. He reaches around once more, this time holding his fingers to Castiel’s mouth. Within seconds they are dripping with saliva. Tantalisingly slow, he inserts his fingers one at a time into Castiel. 

“Just fuck me!” Castiel whimpers, pushing back onto Dean’s hand. 

Not one to deny a beautiful man a simple request, Dean extracts his fingers and spreads the lube over himself. He positions himself, grasps Castiel’s hips with vigour. 

“Gentle?” He asks. The response comes by way of a rocking of hips and a grinding of ass against dick. No more is said. 

The passers-by under the streetlights stroll along, the steam of their breaths curling to mingle with the lovers above. They grasp blindly for hand, for hair, for heart: they gasp and groan, lost in ecstasy. Castiel sees the people below them, becomes achingly more aware of their proximity with every thrust from Dean until he can stand it no longer.

“Stop.” He murmurs. Too quiet. “Stop.” 

Dean hears, obeys immediately. Does not pull out. He waits, hands still resting on Castiel’s hips. 

“There are so many people down there.” Castiel whispers. “What if someone sees us?” 

Dean laughs. 

“Now is the time you decide to realise that?” He steps away, sliding out of Castiel who moans in complaint. 

“They’re turning me off.” He says, turning to prove his point. Dean taps his chin and attempts to hold in his laughter. He does not last long.

“Alright, alright,” he guides his guest inside “we can carry on inside, where it’s warm and there are no pedestrians.” 

Castiel hesitates, Dean notices and stops, a questioning look filling his features. 

“Do you..” Castiel clears his throat, prays silently that he will not offend with what he’s about to ask “Do you mind if we, you know, don’t keep going?” He braces himself for the onslaught of outrage. It never arrives. 

“Of course.” Dean smiles, understanding. “I’m going to have to finish myself off though, if you’ll just excuse me for a moment.” He turns to leave the room, but is stopped by a gentle hand on his bicep. 

“Let me.” Castiel offers. He feels bad for making Dean stop so abruptly, wants to make it up to him in some small way. 

“You don’t –”

“I want to.”

And so Dean stands as Castiel kneels. He runs his fingers over Dean’s chiselled torso, peppers kisses along his cock. When he finally takes it in his mouth he can taste the lube, sweet and sticky, mingling with the bitter taste of Dean. The combination urges him on as he slides right down, taking in all of his lover. He is good at this; he knows it. He pulls away – a string of saliva connects him to Dean. He goes again, begins bobbing his head. He can hear Dean above him, breathing his appreciation into the sky. There is a hand on his head. His hands busy themselves with every other part of Dean, leaving a tingling trail from toe to torso. He changes his speed, quickens his pace before slowing right down and then picks it right back up again. 

It does not take long for Dean to reach climax; the build up from earlier had him on the verge of tipping point. Castiel’s expertise pushes him over, sends him hurtling towards the finish line. The hand resting on Castiel’s head seizes a handful of hair and begins to move in time, forcing Castiel just that little bit further, making him move just that little bit faster, faster, faster. 

He climaxes with a whole-body shudder, and Castiel swallows it all. When Dean finally releases his hair he smiles up at him, eyelids heavy and lips lopsided. Dean kneels before him, legs shaking slightly. He kisses Castiel once, twice, three times – pulls away and just looks, just takes in the marvel before him. 

“Fuck, you’re good.” He whispers. 

Castiel runs a finger down the bridge of his nose.

“You’re so romantic.” He whispers back, gravel in his throat.

They pause – the air is thick with sex and ready to burst open at the seams. And when it bursts, they laugh. They laugh so hard they lose their grip on each other and Castiel drops to the floor, quaking with the joy of it all. The laughter exhausts his soul, and he soon finds himself yawning loudly into Dean’s thigh. A hand reaches down to smooth his hair and thumb his stubble. 

“Home time, or bed time?” Come the question from above. 

Castiel contemplates his choices, remains still upon the cold floorboards. A minute later he sits, stands and waits. Dean rises to stand beside him. His face is politely expectant: an answer is needed. 

“Bed time.” He decides, aloud. 

A nod of the head, a grip on the arm and a smile to melt the Devil guides him to the bedroom. Dean gestures to a large bureau resting against the far wall. 

“What’s mine is yours. I’ll get you a toothbrush while you dress.” He enters the ensuite and leaves the room empty but for Castiel and the choices laid out before him. He soon discovers that his choices are limited to flannel and cotton, and he begins to wonder if his new lover even owns a proper suit, let alone anything that doesn’t involve a plaid pattern. 

He is dressed in a plain shirt and flannel bottoms when Dean re-emerges wielding a toothbrush. There is a hint of toothpaste on the side of his lip, evidence of his activities mere moments ago. The one he holds he extends. 

“This would have been useful last time.” Castiel comments, plucking the instrument from Dean’s fingers. 

“I didn’t have a spare last time.” Dean responds.

“Planning ahead, were we?”

“I was in the boy scouts’ when I was younger, you know. Be prepared! And all that crap.”

“Shame you weren’t a girl scout: those cookies are a hell of a thing.” 

Dean laughs, shakes his head and crawls into bed. It is 11.08PM. He works the words around his tongue: eleven-oh-ate-pee-em. Quietly, quietly, not loud enough to be heard over Castiel’s rigorous hygiene. Eleven-oh-ate-pee-em. Eleven-oh-ate-pee-em. He does this, following every minute until Castiel returns to him, a splat of toothpaste on his shirt. Dean wants to take him again, wants to take him properly and fully and to never stop, but his lover looks sleepy, so he tries to think about anything that isn’t the curve of Castiel’s ass, to look at the ceiling instead of the pulsing of blood beneath the flesh of his neck. 

It does not work. 

Castiel hums happiness as Dean plants the hint of a kiss along his jaw. 

“You make me feel hollow.” He whispers.

Castiel turns, anchors his gaze with a curious eyebrow.

“You just make me so hungry;” Dean continues, “And if you turn your back for too long I may just devour you.”

“Be careful,” Castiel murmurs “this meal may just fight back.”

Dean waits no longer, he refuses to. He pounces, tasting every clean tooth in Castiel’s mouth. Fingers dip into skin and bones beg to be bruised. Clothes stay on, pushed roughly aside in the haste of a deeper need. Dean straddles his prey, peppers his chest with affection, sets his flesh boiling. He inhales deep, convinced that if he holds his breath long enough the scent of his lover will be forever embedded in his nostrils.

Castiel fights back: nails tear into Dean’s back and thighs clamp tight, trapping him. He reaches blindly for the bedside table and his hand wraps around a small bottle. Castiel hisses gently at the coldness of the liquid and the pleasure of Dean’s fingers. He squirms, rocking minutely into Dean’s hand. When Dean finally gives himself up Castiel howls with ecstasy. 

They glide together, their sweat glistening in the lamp light. Castiel’s breath on his neck makes Dean forget that trees existed. All he needs is Castiel, Castiel, Castiel. His hair, his moans, his hands, his tongue – he is everything Dean needs to survive in this moment and nothing will take away from that. 

“D-Dean..” Castiel’s shaky plea sets him ablaze. 

He pulls out and takes Castiel in his mouth, tasting every inch of him. He teases for a moment, circling his tongue ever-so-gently around the tip, but a hard hand to the back of his head has him rethinking his approach. Castiel holds him steady, bucks into his mouth over and over, again and again, faster and faster. His strangled cry comes right before he does, filling Dean’s mouth with his seed. Dean takes it all, licking Castiel clean before coming up to collapse beside him, still erect. Castiel goes to kneel, goes to return the favour, but is stopped by a tender hand on his shoulder. 

“Leave it.” Dean smiles. “It gives me amazing dreams.” 

Castiel laughs, lays back down. He settles his head onto the pillow and trails his gaze down Dean’s body. He hopes to dream about him. He looks up again to find Dean studying his face intently. There is a tiny crease in his brow. Castiel smoothes his finger over the skin.

“You have a beautiful face.” He says, matter-of-fact.

“Why thank you, angel.” Dean winks.

“Have you ever thought about modelling? You would make an absolute killing.”

“Modelling? Nah, not for me. Too much pressure to attain the impossible, it just ain’t right. I like my meat too much.”

“Oh you don’t need to tell me that twice.” Castiel quirks an eyebrow. 

Dean groans, laughs into his hand.

“Fuck, I walked myself right into that one didn’t I?”

“You practically dived in.” Castiel teases.

“Hush now, you.” Dean rolls onto his side; Castiel follows suit. 

As Dean draws him in he can feel his erection pressed pleasantly against the small of his back. Dean’s arm is secured under his own, fingers loosely intertwined. They turn off the lamp and finally close their eyes. Castiel is overcome with contentment, and he lets the rhythm of Dean’s breath lull him to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the film Nymphomaniac by Lars von Trier.


End file.
